


bits and pieces

by Xirdneth



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Other, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Pre-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, hanniholidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirdneth/pseuds/Xirdneth
Summary: A collection of four works I did for the HanniHolidays 2017 event! Originally posted separately, but now together. Includes: A Soft Nostalgia, wherein Abigail bonds with Hannibal while reflecting on her family; The Other Woman, where Molly deals with the aftermath of Will's disappearance; Smoke and Lemon, a follow-up to the prior where Reba helps her through it, and Absence of a Stag, where Will notices how little he sees the Ravenstag anymore, and wonders why.





	1. A Soft Nostalgia

**PROMPT: Christmas Cookies**

 

“I should have known you could bake, too.” Abigail moves silently, as if she were a ghost haunting the house by the sea, as Hannibal has taught her to. Even he seems susceptible to her silence, but she doesn't trust it; he's luring her, always trying to lure her into believing she has any chance against him. Still, he feigns surprise at her response: every micro-expression is a machination, from the tension scrunching his shoulders, to the stark jerk of his hand as he stirs. It is a worthy performance, but a performance all the same.

      “Oh?” he shifts into a paternal playfulness; it is achingly similar to her first father, and her chest warms and pangs simultaneously. “How so?”

      Well, if he is to play the role of the father, then she is to play the role of the daughter. How much truth there is in that, she is not willing to analyze. “You're good at everything,” she half-laments, positioning herself by his side so that she may get a better look.

      “You flatter me.” A few months prior, she may have rolled her eyes at that. Now, her only response is the timid flutter of her mouth. “I admit, I often find my indulgences elsewhere. However, in this case, these seem appropriate.” As he speaks, the mixture makes its transformation into dough, and he sets about prepping the surface. The flour looks like snow.

      “My mom used to bake Christmas cookies,” she notes. Wafts of spiced gingerbread fill the air, carrying the lightest touch of peppermint from the candy canes prepared to the side, and every muscle in her body relaxes despite herself; it smells of home.

      “Was she a good cook?”

      “She thought so.” At the thought, Abigail snorted. “She wasn't gifted in the culinary arts.” The humour melts from her face, shifting into a soft nostalgia. “But I ate everything she cooked anyway. Even when the cookies were burnt or the … meat was tough, I ate it, and… it tasted good.”

      “It tasted like love,” Hannibal provides as he artfully cuts festive shapes into the dough. One of which resembles a reindeer; the sight of those doughy antlers sends a pang through her chest. A sad and heavy feeling. She hasn't felt nauseous for some time now; she has buried her horror somewhere dark and deep in her mind. There's no room for it anymore.

      “Yeah.” Her voice comes soft, almost unspoken. She thinks of her mother's smile as she would dance around the kitchen, baking and cooking away, humming along. If only her last memory of her mother's smile hadn't been a bright gash across her throat.

      “Then, in that case,” the accented cadence of Hannibal's voice snaps her out of her reverie, “these will be just as good as your mother's."

      Abigail wonders if he means that.


	2. The Other Woman

**PROMPT: Ornament**

 

Molly Foster, once known as Molly Graham, had finally started feeling okay, even with the dark shadow of their anniversary on the horizon. A year after the disappearance of her ex-husband, and the clamour had begun to quiet down; only the most fervent of conspirators obsessed about the stories and theories they birthed, while the rest of the world moved on to newer, fresher horrors. With her name changed, nobody put two and two together anymore; not as frequently as they did, before, anyway. It seemed that, finally, she could move on from that black spot on her life: the spot of being known as Will Graham's wife (known more commonly as that poor woman, or in some crueller cases by Lecter's obsessive 'fans', the other woman).   
  
     At least, it seemed that way. Until she was rummaging through her attic in search of Christmas decorations, and came across a small canine ornament. His ornament. And the world, for a moment, turned inside out. Emotion surged in her chest like a storm rising, bubbling in her throat and blurring her visions. It was never the emotion itself that took her off-guard – but the sheer amount of it. The incomprehensibility of it. So many separate emotions all tangled together until they joined together in some giant amorphous shape that sat heavy in her chest: the confusion, the mourning, the fear, the anger, the horror; they all viciously fought for dominance, to the point she felt as if she were about to burst at the seams.   
  
     She sat there, in the attic, holding that stupid figurine in her hands, trying to hold it together. Her breath came in bursts, holding her lungs in its painful grasp; her stomach collapsed upon itself; her eyes burned with the inability to cry. She couldn't allow herself to, not while Wally was in the room below her. That horrible feeling of tension, that dreadful heaviness that threatened to rip her to shreds, was only worth bearing if it meant Wally be spared by the weight of the same. Life had been hard for her, but it had undoubtedly been even more-so for him, who couldn't even begin to comprehend the horrors he had become entangled in. She was the only stable force in his life. She couldn't threaten that.   
  
     She wouldn't threaten that.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**PROMPT: Fireplace**

 

After the meltdown in the dark of her attic, Molly went to bed. She slept, or so she would tell people if they asked (they didn't), dreamless if they would ask further (they didn't), and she continued on with her life. She dropped Wally off at school. She bought groceries. She tidied the house. She drank tea, because it was the heart of winter and that was what people did during the heart of winter, even though she did not feel cold. The truth was, Molly did not feel much of anything in the days following her meltdown. To call it an empty feeling would be incorrect, for that implies a vessel, and she felt like much less than a vessel; she felt ghost-like, intangible, something hovering in the air like a mist after rain, watching as the woman people called Molly acted out every act a single mother was supposed to act. At one point, she wondered if she were going to live out her whole life like this, separated from her body.  
  
      As she watched herself play the part of Molly Foster, how everybody reacted as they had reacted before, not a seed of discord sown, she wondered if that would be quite so bad.  
  
      In fact, on the eleventh of December, she all but resolved to remain in this state. Unfortunately, for miss Molly Foster, it appeared that the universe had made its own resolution: to absolutely go against everything she planned, regardless whether it be in line with what it wanted for her in prior years. So, on that day of December 11th, when Wally had been dropped off, the groceries had been bought, the living room had been cleaned up, and the kettle put on, Molly suddenly felt devastatingly real.  
  
      Every thought that had eaten her up in that attic, every ghost of a bitter memory that had filled the dusty air and hung above her as she slept like some sort of demented mobile for an infant, returned in full force, and suddenly her body—that had been empty of even herself—now felt very, very full.  
  
      This time, however, Molly was not swallowed up by the shock of it all; after all, hadn't she experienced this only a week prior? It may have been as cruel and unforgiving as it had been before, but it was not so dark and isolating; there was no fear that Wally would overhear, there was no crushing dark, and there was a phone right in front of her, which was some anchor to the outside world. And, while there may not have been many who Molly could rely on, if at all, there was somebody who might have been able to help her.  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
While Molly expected a guest, the doorbell still succeeded in sending a sliver of dread along the line of her spine; it had been all too reminiscent of the insistent visits of paparazzi and hungry journalists from before. Still, this time Molly knew that she was all but forgotten by only the most obsessive of fans and conspiracy theorists, and she knew who her visitor was. So, she swallowed her anxiety down with a gulp of tea, and made her way to the door.  
  
      Each lock—four in total—clicked as if ancient as she undid them, and while the lengthy process did not help the paranoid feeling in her gut that the other would be displeased by her call, at least it gave her some time to prepare. After all, it had been months, and their meeting had been scarcely a conversation; it had been rather dry, actually, spoken over Earl Grey tea and relatively mundane.  
  
      (Weather's nice. It is, yeah. Little cold out. I don't mind the cold. Me neither.)  
  
      But it was a conversation. A normal, regular conversation, when she had been entirely robbed of the experience after the disappearance of her ex-husband. And frankly, a normal conversation was what she needed right now.  
  
      The door finally opened, and with it a rush of cold, but Molly did not feel it. Warmth surged in her stomach at the face of Reba McClane; the soft curve of her cheeks, the dark brown of her eyes, the peek of white teeth. She did have a lovely face. A kind face. It was no wonder that even Dragons could discover tenderness at the sight of her. “You came.” The presence of a relieved sigh, the release of which entirely unplanned, surprised her. Had she been that convinced she wouldn't come?  
  
      At that, Reba frowned the tiniest of frowns; not one ill in intent, but as if genuinely confused by the statement. “Of course I did.” Then, her expression shifted into something softer, mouth curving with a smile once more. “Now, are you gonna let me in or what? It's pretty cold out here.”  
  
      “Oh, yeah, ha. Come on in. I made tea.”  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
It was odd, having someone in the house. Everything felt out of place, including herself, and she had to bite the insides of her cheek to stop herself from fidgeting. Instead, she busied herself with pouring a cup of tea for her guest, as well as topping up her own. God knows she needed it. “Sorry the living room's a mess, I've only gotten in not long ago—“  
  
      “It's fine, Molly. I can't tell.”  
  
      “That's very kind of you.”  
  
      “I mean, it's not a matter of kindness. I just can't see.”  
  
      “Oh. Oh shit, you're right.” Momentarily her horror at her own foot-in-the-mouth moment of stupidity absolutely dominated her, eyes widening with the sheer terribleness of it all. She even had a passing urge to clasp at her mouth—or her pearls, like some faint-hearted Southern lady—before Reba cracked up, instantly melting the hard block of abject horror in her chest. It wasn't long before Molly followed suit, her laugh beginning with a bubbling snort and ending with a wheeze. “Jesus. I'm more out of it than I thought.”  
  
      “No kiddin',” Reba trailed off with a smile, “but I'll let you off just this once.”  
  
      “Generous of you,” Molly grinned in response, feeling the hardness of her muscles melt with the gentle banter, “ah, there's tea on the table in front of the couch.” Reba navigated the room, not effortlessly, but with the kind of care that one would no doubt master after a life of being blind; she folded herself on the couch, sinking into it with a sigh. “Good couch?”  
  
      “Great couch.” She didn't say it, but Molly could tell the plush of the couch must have been heaven after a long drive. God knows how much the taxi charged… It seemed rude to offer to pay, or at least like she would be knocked down, so she would have to find other ways to repay her for her time. “It's cold as hell in here,” said Reba, rubbing her palms together, “you got heating?”  
  
      “Oh shit, I didn't even notice.” She was so used to it, at this point, that the cold hardly fazed her unless it came with a gust. At once, she was called to her feet by the need to heat it up, though not without an apologetic prologue: “I warn you, this is an old building, it doesn't have… typical heating.” Rather, a large fireplace that consumed half the wall, and lets out a gentle breath dragged from the sky above. It was not an eyesore in the slightest, but it was hardly practical. What it had in aesthetics, it lacked sorely in ease; though, once she reflected for a moment, the chopping of trees did provide a useful hobby and a sense of security. Still, sometimes she had to wonder if a government-ordained home really had any use being so… complicated to uphold.  
  
      (If she had to theorize, she would think that its many 'unique' factors would scare her into purchasing her own property, but unfortunately for the government and real estate in general, she was still held firmly by her paranoia, and so neglected to make any purchases that could be tied back to her name.)  
  
      “It's a fireplace. Is that… okay?” Needless to say, Molly was hesitant to get fire involved, in any shape or form, after hearing the horror story the Dragon inflicted on her.  
  
      Reba scoffed, but not with ill intention. “Of course it is, girl, put that heating on before I freeze to death.” Molly smiled faintly, and could not help but think of the Robert Frost poem. After a moment of quiet as she set about preparing the fire, Reba voiced a soft addendum: “But thanks for asking.”  
  
      “Of course,” Molly responded, and then brought the fireplace to life. The flames were large and bold, but far from frightening—although her first few dalliances with such a thing were not so devoid of fear—and the effect was immediate. After appraising the fire, Molly settled down next to Reba. “It'll take a little while for it to heat up completely, but the tea should help.”  
  
      “Oh, right!” Reba reached for her cup and inhaled its fumes. “Do I detect a trace of lemon?” she asked, almost impishly, directing her gaze to where she suspected Molly was.  
  
      “Perhaps,” came her response, as light as Reba's inquiry. She took a sip of her own tea, which had cooled from scalding to a drinkable warmth. It did, in fact, carry a trace of lemon—due to the citrus peels prepared alongside the original leaves—alongside the lemon grass, and of course, the dominance of bergamot orange; all this, coupled with a black tea base—she had considered instead using a green tea variant, but there was a reason she defaulted to this—and a splash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar, made the cup of tea something delightfully rich yet creamy. Reba drank, and her face scrunched and opened with a realization.  
  
      “Earl Grey?”  
  
      “Earl Grey. I remembered it was your favourite. And, well, it seemed fitting.” For Earl Grey tea had been the drink they had shared over their first conversation, as Wally napped at Molly's side, in the waiting room of the FBI's headquarters. Molly had been prepared to sit in silence—how would she strike up a conversation with the other woman?—and yet Reba had approached her, offering her flask. It's Earl Grey, she half-warned, half-apologized, sorry, it's my favourite.  
  
      “Ah, so you weren't lying when you said you liked it.”  
  
      “No!” Molly laughed, taking another drink. With the ambient scent of smoke—the kind that was woody and safe, compared to the crueller scent of its more nefarious cousin—and the taste of lemon and various citrus on her tongue, Molly felt more at home than she had in a year. “I loved it. I still do. It's becoming my favourite too.”  
  
      “Well, I'm glad to hear.”  
  
      “You know, I never, ah, got to thank you for that.”  
  
      “Hm?”  
  
      “Reaching out to me. I really appreciated it. I still do, actually. I needed it. I imagine you needed it too,” she added thoughtfully, “and I think I was too out of it to even thank you properly. I know it was the tiniest conversation ever—“  
  
      “We were talking about the weather,” Reba said with a smile, and Molly's chest warmed. Reba remembered it, too, even though so many months had passed.  
  
      “Like two strangers in an elevator. Yet it… it really helped. That little dose of normalcy. God knows I've needed some normalcy for a while. That's actually why I thought to call you. In like, what, a year? The span of a year, that was the last proper, decent conversation I had, where I didn't feel like I was being scrutinized or… like I was in any kind of danger. You make me feel comfortable.” Safe goes unsaid.  
  
      A moment of silence as Reba took it in.  
  
      “Sorry, did I go too far?” Her knuckles blanched against the porcelain of her cup, suddenly struck by a pang of anxiety. Silence was always a garden for paranoia; like weeds, fears would burst from the soil of her mind and dominate the entirety of it.  
  
      “No, no! I… That's the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me in… well, ever. It means a lot. And hey, Molly… for the record… you make me feel comfortable, too. That's why I came. Being around you… it's a breath of fresh air.”  
  
And like that, the garden was purged; weeds destroyed to the root, and in their place, flowers of euphoria and joy bloomed in their stead with petals of yellow and pink. She smiled, wide, exposing her teeth; this time without any strain, nor any timidness restraining it from its full splendour.  
  
      “So, about that weather, huh?”  
  
      “Cold as anything!”


	4. Absence of a Stag

**PROMPT:**   **Reindeer**

 

Will doesn't notice the black stag's disappearance until he is surrounded by its festive cartoons plastered on the local convenience store's windows. Though their cartoonish faces and bright colours are nothing like the grim hallucination that stalked him for six years, the realization they inspire is sudden and hard; it hits him as sharp as lightning, a hot jolt in the chest. It is the first time he has gone so long, blissfully uncaring of the stag's presence (or lack thereof), and it rocks him to the core. He feels frozen in place, like some pop-up statue, until the server at the counter snaps him out of it.  
  
“Sir? Are you alright?” Her voice is light and airy against the sudden umbra of his thoughts.  
  
He blinks quickly, as if awoken from a daze. “Ah, yeah. Yes. My apologies.”  
  
Her face, round and soft and creased with concern, lifts into relief. He, hardened with stress at the thought of her being too concerned about him, relaxes. “No problem, sir! How can I help you?”  
  
“Just buying these...”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Will, you appear distracted. Is there something on your mind?” Will's haul has been removed from the red plastic bag, now splayed out on the kitchen counter for Hannibal's analysis. It is simple things, the kind of cheap food that many lived on for a half-sustenance; the kind that Hannibal utterly loathed. Even though his words are emphatic, genuine in their question for Will's well-being, but his mouth is scowled at the sight of cheap milk and 'groceries', and no doubt the sight of cigarettes displeases him further.  
  
He doesn't really care about Hannibal's petty annoyances, not since they became nonlethal, anyway. Instead, he stares into the space beside Hannibal, where the fridge and the chipped blue canvas of the cupboard door dwell, middle finger gracing his lip where its index sibling remains perched on the upper tier. His lips are dry, the cold weather draining him of it. All these small thoughts are nearly suffice distraction from the main thing he wonders: where did the stag go? “Mm…” is his response, not even dwelling enough on formulating a response. Hannibal moves around the kitchen, putting things in their respective places. Insulted as he may be by their existence, he would never messy a kitchen, no matter how small and faded kitsch it may be. A kitchen is Hannibal's cathedral, shrine, temple. It is where he makes his offerings and where he transcends the lowest of humanity to the highest of art. For the most part. Lately, it's been mainly trying to make a fancy grilled sandwich with the utilities he has available.  
  
It's quite endearing, seeing him so out of his element.  
  
“Mm?” Hannibal echoes once the kitchen space is clean. His satisfaction, while somewhat shadowed at the displeasure of the shopping haul, radiates from him.  
  
“Just thinking. It doesn't matter.”  
  
“I disagree.”  
  
Will rolls his eyes. Hannibal does not relent; he prompts with his eyes, dark and immune to the fluorescent lighting. Neither train of thought seems appealing to discuss, so he settles for an avoidance of the truth. “I'm thinking… of how much I want a grilled cheese.”  
  
Hannibal does not look amused.  
  
  
  
  
  
They sleep in the same room, with separate beds, though their distance is measured only by the bedside table squashed between them. On it sits a glasses case, a book and a lamp. The latter of which has been off for quite some time, blanketing the room in darkness. Nothing but the titter of nocturnal birds and the slow breath from Hannibal's sleep-slack mouth. It often came at night. Perhaps it would come for him now. He lies, supine, so as to not wake Hannibal—such a perceptive man, no doubt even a shift in the way Will's breath stirred the air would awake him from whatever dreams such a man dreamed—and waits for the haunting, daunting click, click of hooves against the laminate flooring.  
  
Nothing. There is birdsong. There is breathing. There is the dull thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The old echo of some faraway version of himself is chanting a mantra. It is 2:42 in the morning. I am in a one bedroom apartment in Toronto, which I share with Hannibal Lecter. My name is Will Graham. And I share a goddamn apartment with Hannibal Lecter. Even his younger self, innocent to Hannibal's nature, would be baffled at such a thing. He would be baffled at a lot of things Will Graham is now.  
  
Like content. Will Graham is content. He listens to the birdsong and the breathing and the beating, and he feels no surge of fear. There is an undercurrent of adrenaline, always, which is standard for anybody on the run after staging a prison break of one of the world's most infamous killers before disappearing off of the face of the earth. But that, that is nothing in comparison to the sheer… contentedness that pervades every moment. A sense of being in the right place. A sense of… stability.  
  
Will realizes why he has not seen that stag in quite some time, now.


End file.
